The tendrils of dialect, woven through the myriad of the vast cosmic weavings, stretch out to touch the strings of one's soul. Can truth ever be untangled from the language that you grasp yet slips like stardust?
Articulated illusions, whispered over cosmic teacups, provoke reveries. What if nothing but echoes existed, all resonating on imagined wavelengths?
The illusion speaks the loudest when silence engulf the stars themselves. Do we navigate this endless void through senses entwined in relics of forgotten aspirations? Our paths illumined not by lanterns, but by the constellations of our speaking souls.